


The Doctor and The Degenerate

by Binaryfrog



Series: Past Lives [4]
Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: AU, F/M, Interactive, Interactive Fiction, Reader-Interactive, WWII, World War Two
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:07:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24170305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Binaryfrog/pseuds/Binaryfrog
Summary: Being judged for wearing pants and boots can be difficult to say the least. Perhaps Dr. Reid, a professor of chemistry at the local college, can find a way to look past the trousers and the gender norms of the time.Excerpt:“Damn it, watch where you’re going!” you snarl, too tired for manners. You haul yourself upright and tighten the knot around your waist.“I am so incredibly sorry, here let me…” a lanky figure, a string bean really, mumbles from the pavement. You raise an eyebrow as he finally looks up from the few files he had been shuffling together. The mortified look on his face is mildly amusing. “You uhm…” he points to your boot.You look down and notice a manilla envelope trapped under your heel. Crouching down with a grimace, you retrieve the file and hand it over to the man. Well, kid might be a more apt descriptor. Another one of those faces. His tweed jacket with leather elbow patches makes him look like your father, but his messy overgrown hair and lopsided smile reminds me of your brother in his teens. He couldn’t have been much older than you, if anything he was probably younger. His honey colored eyes were friendly behind his embarrassment.
Relationships: Spencer Reid & Reader, Spencer Reid/Reader, y/n/Spencer Reid, yn/Spencer Reid
Series: Past Lives [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/374312
Kudos: 8





	The Doctor and The Degenerate

**Author's Note:**

> The beginning of the fourth story in my WWII AU series entitled Past Lives. I hope you enjoy. This is work is interactive so I would suggest downloading the chrome extension InteractiveFics or something similar.
> 
> -Binaryfrog

The work bell screams out the end of the shift. The textile factory in town, remade to support the war efforts, smells of sweat, hot metal, and smoke. You stand up and adjust you posture, lifting your head and rolling your shoulders back. The gloves come off and you stash them temporarily in your armpit. You wipe the sweat from your brow, successfully moving the hair out of your eyes. A black line of soot gives you a cartoonish scowl. You transfer your gloves to the back pocket of your denim coveralls, unzip the front to your hips, and tie the sleeves around your waste. The t-shirt residing beneath the protective covering is more grey than white, even though you only started working a few weeks ago. You’ve given up on laundry and don’t even try to keep your whites white, much to the chagrin of your nosey neighbors.  
“Did you see her? Wearing men’s boots?”  
“She volunteered to work you know.”  
“I heard she’s still single because she likes women.”  
“I mean she’s 25 now, she should have married years ago. Poor dear.”  
You roll your eyes to yourself as you walk towards the time clock. You scan the wall of cards, even though yours is always in the same place. You notice one of your co-wokers standing in the way, and you gently nudge him to the side. Why he hadn’t been drafted yet, she had no idea. He was a sweet kid though. Or perhaps he is older than you. He has one of those faces. The machine makes a loud clack sound as it records that you’ve clocked out. 10 hours today… not bad. You replace your card, take a pack of cigarette and a small box of matches front your front pocket, and swiftly walk out the door. The match strikes the box and fizzles to life. You place the cigarette between chapped lips and inhale slowly as you walk toward home. The heavy steel-toed boots rub up against the blister you’ve been nursing for a week. Your sore arms protest every time you lift your hand to smoke and slowly you feel the exhaustion set in. The walk home is long, but you can’t afford a car. Everything you need is with in walking distance from home if you have an hour, and on days when walking was almost impossible public transportation wasn’t out of the question. The rates weren’t too bad, but the fresh air was nicer than sitting on a bus full of miserable looking strangers. Besides, walking past the college daily reminds you of your goals. Once everything was over, that’s where you’d be. You don’t know why you want to go yet, only that it’s an opportunity to do something more with your life than sit at home.  
After half an hour, you recognize the campus approaching by the giant trees. They sprawl out over the sidewalk and create a lush green tunnel. Sometimes you whisper ‘choo choo’ to yourself as you pass under the arboreal ceiling. Your younger brother used to do that whenever there was a tunnel to go through. Next comes the concrete sign welcoming passersby to knowledge. A Latin phrase that may as well be gibberish to you scrawls across the base pedestal. Behind it, the lawn, and past that a large brick building. Your pace slows as you take the building in. You walk past it often and know every inch of it, but you can’t help but stare. You drink in the texture of the brick and the intricate stone filigree lining the edges. For a moment you close your eyes and daydream. The smell of fresh paper and the sound of pencils hurriedly transferring notes from sound to sight fill your mind. Suddenly, the feeling of pavement against your already sore hip pushes the daydream out of your minds eye. Your cigarette rolls off the sidewalk and into a gutter with a quiet fizzle.  
“Damn it, watch where you’re going!” you snarl, too tired for manners. You haul yourself upright and tighten the knot around your waist.  
“I am so incredibly sorry, here let me…” a lanky figure, a string bean really, mumbles from the pavement. You raise an eyebrow as he finally looks up from the few files he had been shuffling together. The mortified look on his face is mildly amusing. “You uhm…” he points to your boot.  
You look down and notice a manilla envelope trapped under your heel. Crouching down with a grimace, you retrieve the file and hand it over to the man. Well, kid might be a more apt descriptor. Another one of those faces. His tweed jacket with leather elbow patches makes him look like your father, but his messy overgrown hair and lopsided smile reminds me of your brother in his teens. He couldn’t have been much older than you, if anything he was probably younger. His honey colored eyes were friendly behind his embarrassment.  
You finally decide to give the guy a break and reach out a hand to help him up, “You look like you teach here.”  
“I do teach here,” he states matter-of-factly as he straightens his jacket. You notice that his pants are too long and his shoes are scuffed. He grasps your hand tightly as you lift.  
“What?” you ask curiously. Is he even old enough to teach?  
“What?” For a professor, he sure seems dim.  
“What do you teach,” you sigh.  
“Oh uhm,” he rifles through his papers, “I’m a professor of organic chemistry. I teach my students-“  
You cut him off, “The stuff that makes up stuff, right?”  
“Well uhm I guess you could think of it that way, but really what you’re thinking of is matter. You see chemistry is the study of-“  
You present your soot covered hand, “My name is Y/N. And you are professor…?”  
“Doctor actually,” He corrects, tugging the hem of his jacket indignantly, “Doctor Spencer Reid.” He gingerly reaches out and shakes your hand. He has a decent grip, it would probably be better if your hands weren’t filthy from work.  
“Doctor, huh?” You’re surprised. There’s no way… “How old are you?”  
“I’m 24 actually,” he looks down at his dull shoes and kicks an imaginary pebble off to the side.  
“How’d you manage that?”  
“I…” he pauses. He’s explained all this before, you can see the exhaustion behind his eyes.  
“You’re really smart,” you chuckle, giving him a break, “no explanation needed.”  
He nods and looks off to the side. He wants to go. Shame, you were just starting to get interested.  
“Hey, maybe I’ll run in to you again tomorrow,” you grimace to yourself. Really?  
“Perhaps you will.” There’s that lopsided smile again. It’s quite charming if you’re being honest with yourself. He nods and scoots past you. Those scuffed shoes carry him up the lawn and in to the brick building you admire on you daily walks. Had he been in that building this whole time? Small world you guess.

The end of shift bell screams out. Your routine begins. Stand, stretch, tie your coveralls, gentle nudge, clack, cigarette, and then it’s time to walk again. You wipe your grubby hands on the pants portion of your coveralls, accomplishing nothing, before attending to the spark burns on your forearm. The coveralls only do much against the tiny flying embers that sprout forth from the equipment you use daily. You wonder momentarily how many burn scars you’ll have by the time this hell is over. You take a drag of your cigarette and rub the back of your sore neck. You have been crouching for most of the day and your entire body aches. Despite this, you find yourself walking quicker than normal. Your pace verges on a jog before you can stop yourself. By the time you see the leaf tunnel, you’ve begun to run. It doesn’t take you long to get the college’s sign, but by the time you’re there you are acutely aware of the amount of work you had done that day.  
You climb up the sign. It’s fairly low to the ground and doesn’t take much to climb. You plunk yourself down on top of the grey block. How is it possible for your ass to be sore too? You shift, trying to find a comfortable position but fail. I shouldn’t be waiting long. Your boot heels bounce off the chunk of stone, leaving scuff marks behind. With every bounce you think of a new way to catch Dr. Spender Reid before he runs up the lawn.  
“Oh hey fancy meeting you here!” No… that’s dumb he’s here every day.  
“Well what a coincidence!” No, you know he works here don’t be creepy.  
You spend some time mumbling to yourself, trying to gauge how you want to approach this. He’s… interesting, and you’ve decided that you need to know more about this person. You’d like to see his goofy smile again at least.  
“Miss?” you look over at the voice coming from a few feet away, “I’m not sure how appreciative the janitorial staff will be with the… contributions you’ve made to the welcome sign here.” The Doctor himself stands there. You think he’s trying very hard to make a joke, but it’s obvious he can’t help but follow the rules.  
“Dr. Reid! Just the man I was looking for,” better than nothing I guess, “I was wondering if you could help me out.” You hop down from your perch and immediately regret it as pain shoots up from your heels.  
“Please, call me Spencer,” he says with a chuckle, “What can I help you with, Y/N?”  
He remembered your name, “I need help figuring out the chemical composition of something.” Ok… where are you taking this? The words seem to spill from your mouth with out much thought. There isn’t much you can do to reign them in, no matter what you try.  
“Oh absolutely! I’m heading to my office right now if you’d like. Do you have the substance with you? I have some equip-“  
“No, I’m sorry that’s not what I meant,” you suddenly feel a little guilty. He was genuinely excited to see what you had brought. Perhaps also to teach. It was even more endearing than his smile and kind eyes. You watch the light drain out of said eyes for a moment, “I meant.. well I know we just ran in to each other yesterday,” oof, “but I was wondering if you’d like to get a drink later. If you drink that is! You don’t have to, I mean- I just- uhm…” Now it is your turn to be awkward.  
He looks shocked, “I-I- I mean, I have classes to prepare for and I’m working on applying for research grants…” He angles himself away from the conversation and you begin to panic.  
“Listen, it’s just a little bar, not too far from here,” you try desperately to convince him, “There’s food too, you don’t have to drink!” Your eyes scan over his face and begin to lose hope, “I know I’m not supposed to be the one that asks,” you admit quietly as your eyes fall you the steel lined toes of your boots, “But, you seem interesting, and I’d like to get to know you better. Would you…” You trail off, your confidence gone. You kick yourself mentally for coming off so strong. You were supposed to wait for him.  
You can hear him smile, “Are you free after seven?”  
You begin to beam; your eyes must be glowing like a candle, “Absolutely! Do you know where Joe’s is?” It’s a small hole in the wall establishment known for its slightly sticky floors and amazing beer on tap. You give him directions, down two blocks and right three.  
“After seven then?” You inquire shyly. You don’t normally blush like this, but you can feel your face heating slowly.  
He responds in kind, “Yes absolutely. I’ll meet you out front ok? But I gotta…” He gestures over his shoulder to the brick building on the lawn.  
“Oh sure yeah!” you give him a joking salute, “good luck in your endeavors Dr. science!” what the hell Y/N?  
You watch him jog up the small field of grass and fling the double doors to the building open. He must be late. You sigh and smile so wide you feel like your face may crack in half. Enough of that! You berate yourself as you start walking the last 30 minutes to home. Suddenly you realize, you’ll have to find something to wear. You think you have a dress stowed away somewhere in your closet. Did it still fit?  
Your mind swirls with questions, plans, and terror. Do you even have heels anymore? When was the last time you wore a skirt? Trousers had always been your preference. Maybe you could just wear trousers. Would he care?  
Distracted, afraid, and giddy you walk the rest of the way home.


End file.
